


Release Life's Rapture

by janvandyne



Series: Release Life's Rapture [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Spartacus (TV) Fusion, F/M, Gladiators, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29338734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janvandyne/pseuds/janvandyne
Summary: You spend the summer at your godfather's villa where you meet Bucky, his champion gladiator.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Series: Release Life's Rapture [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155032
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	Release Life's Rapture

x edit by 264jana on tumblr x

* * *

_Let all of life be an unfettered howl._

_Like the crowd greeting the gladiator._

_Don’t stop to think, don’t interrupt the scream,_

_exhale, release life’s rapture._

\- Vladimir Nabokov -

* * *

Sword meets spear, steel against unyielding steel, sending a symphony of sparks flying from both men’s weapons and onto the sands. You can feel the roar of the crowd around the pulvinus where you sit, the vibrations finding haven in your otherwise motionless body, creeping its way through your heart like desire. But even still, the sound of steel rings in your ears, drowning out all other noises of the arena until all you can hear is sword against spear against shield.

The day is growing late, coloring the sky with a deep magenta glow that signals the approaching dusk. Though the sun is slowly descending, the heat still lays on you like a blanket, surrounding you, warming your already overheated skin as you absentmindedly call for wine.

You startle when you feel a hand at your shoulder. Your thoughts have been intent on the games, but now free from your reverie, you smile up at your godfather and accept the glass offered to you.

“I had not known you were so captivated by the games!” Alexander says, pleased at the revelation.

“I have only now realized their appeal,” you admit before taking a sip of your wine. 

You have to hold back a grimace. Not Cestian, you note. Next time, you will be sure to request water. You hand the glass off to your body slave and turn your attention back to the display before you.

It is not the games themselves that you have learned to favor, but the gladiators who fought in them. More precisely, one gladiator in particular who is putting on quite an impressive show at the moment, leaving you fixed on the edge of your chair.

The gladiator’s hard body shines radiant beneath the Roman sun, so much that you believe that he must have been sculpted from bronze, carved with thoughtful, meticulous strokes, lovingly crafted by the gods themselves. He is made of strong lines and chiseled plains, wide shoulders tapered down to a slender waist. Powerful arms, stronger legs, a graceful jaw paired with eyes like jewels and lips red as sin.

Jacobus is the most glorious being that you have ever seen.

“A spectacle isn’t it?” Alexander asks you. “Jacobus is well versed in pleasing the crowd.”

“Well versed, indeed,” you reply, though you are not so joyous. 

The thought of this match has plagued you since news of it. Jacobus and the undefeated Champion of Capua fighting _sine missione_ – to the death. It was enough to reduce you to tremors. But now, seeing the two before you, your nerves quickly fade, leaving only longing in their wake.

Jacobus owns the arena – the sand beneath his feet, the swords in his hands, the crowds clamoring around him. His opponent will soon be his too. The day will be won and he will be the new champion.

Jacobus side steps his opponent’s attack, leaving the man sprawled upon the ground. He quickly recovers, though, and lunges for Jacobus who evades the sword meant to pierce his stomach and bends beneath the weapon. He then lands a blow to his attacker’s back, once more sending him to the sand.

Jacobus’ laugh finds its way up to the pulvinus, wrapping around you like a tangible thing. You have heard him speak in the ludus, instructing his fellow gladiators with the right combination of firm demands and helpful guidance. You have heard his during practice spars, taunting his opponent with playful banter. You have dreamed of his voice, of Jacobus whispering in your ear as he thrusts inside of you, passionate words made rough and thick as gravel. If you were deaf to everything but the gladiator’s voice, still you would be a contented woman.

“Does your gladiator fear nothing?” you ask of your godfather, never taking your eyes off the man in question.

“Jacobus is fear!” Alexander says. “See how the Champion of Capua quivers before him!”

And how you quiver, too, now that you can share in your uncle’s mirth, for he spoke the truth. Not but minutes after his declaration, the once champion’s head rolls upon the sands, his body dropping to the ground. You cannot suppress the smile that blooms upon your face as Jacobus’ name echoes through the air, a steady throb trembling throughout the amphitheater, not so different from the one forming between your thighs.

* * *

Once back at the villa, Alexander takes both you and his wife under each arm. “A celebration is in order!” he announces, pulling you two tightly towards him. “The House of Pierce will be on every tongue in Capua!”

You smile at your uncle’s rejoicing. A celebration was in order, indeed. Jacobus’ victory in the arena has turned the incessant fire within you into an inferno, not easily quenched nor sated. The flames lick at your flesh, heating your body with a sultry blush, so much that you fear your godfather would feel the warmth radiating from your skin.

“Truly this has been a most joyous day,” you reply, moving from Alexander’s side, “but I believe it is time for me to retire for the evening. The hour grows late, and I am weary from such blessed excitement.”

“May you have peace in this night of celebration!” Alexander’s wife, Ophelia says. “Surely the men in the ludus are commemorating their house’s victory tonight as well. I pray the noise does not resonate too loudly in your chambers.”

You give the woman a courteous smile. “A discomfort born free from grievance. The Champion of Capua must be honored, on this a most splendid day.”

“And what of our champion?” Alexander contemplates, to your pleasure. A plan has already been set into motion, one now being carried out so easily without much prodding on your part. “Surely he should be properly rewarded for his showing in the arena,” he continues.

“All the wine he could ask for,” Ophelia replies. “I’m sure the others will see that his glass stays overflowing.”

“And women!” Alexander says, then turns to his body slave. “See that his bed is overflowing as well!”

Ophelia looks for a moment aghast, but then corrects herself before anyone notices but yourself. You don’t dwell on it for any length, though, for other thoughts were plaguing you beyond another’s odd behavior.

“Preparations would have to be made,” Ophelia explains. “For tonight, wine will suffice.”

You pause to feign thought for a moment before speaking once more. “I could send my slave, Octavia, to pleasure your champion. Surely a tribute such as she would be most welcome, yet untouched as she is.”

“A generous offer,” Alexander declares, clearly approving of your idea, eager to start partaking in his own celebration. “I will send someone to prepare your slave immediately.”

“Oh! There will be no need,” you say, glancing at Octavia. The girl’s expression is veiled, but you know that you will be chided once in the privacy of your own quarters. You are in no mood for a lecture, but you know that the outcome will be well worth it. You turn back to your uncle, attempting to conceal your excitement. “I will see to Octavia’s preparations.”

* * *

“Do you think this wise?”

You turn and consider your companion. “And of what do you speak?” you ask with mock curiosity. 

Octavia scowls at you, and in turn, you can’t keep the smile from your face. You begin to remove your jewels as you wait for her to answer.

“You think me so dense I cannot see through your schemes?” Octavia asks you. “I am quite aware you won’t be sending me to the gladiator this night. You plan to go in my stead.”

You laugh, quirking a brow. “You know me well.”

She does. She knows you better than anyone else, and though you are younger than her, you have known no one longer. And though she is, strictly speaking, your slave, you have a deeper connection with no one else. You two share a similar visage, as well. Lips akin to one another, eyes both of identical shape but of a slightly different color, both beautiful in your own right and similar to those who regard you two only in passing. Some people remark on how she favors you, while most stay silent, all obviously aware of your father’s indiscretion.

But to you, Octavia is your closest companion. Your slave only by birth and custom. You know your only difference is your mothers’ stations, and for a purpose unknown, the gods have seen it fit to bless you with a proper Roman birth. Octavia was your sister regardless, and were it that your roles were switched, you know that she would treat you similarly.

“You worry for nothing,” you reassure her, but Octavia merely shakes her head and begins to assist in undressing you. You give her nose a soft kiss. “Do not be so sullen.”

Octavia throws her hands up with a sigh and moves away from you. “We could be caught,” she tries to explain, but her concern falls on deaf ears.

You groan in irritation as you remove your clothes and launch the bundled fabric at her. “If someone comes, merely feign sleep. ‘Tis a simple task, carried out time and time over.”

“And what of you?” she asks, walking the clothes to the closet. “You could be hurt! He is a gladiator! He put a man to grass today!”

“And how I trembled as he did!” you reply, smiling at Octavia through your vanity mirror’s reflection as you take your hair down from your plaits. You cock a brow at her agitated expression. “Would you deny me my one desire?” you continue, pouting.

“Your one desire?” she asks, incredulous. “Never have you desired only one thing. You are a greedy girl and the gladiator will quench your thirst for now, but then eyes will be set upon new conquest. When you have your fill you will leave him as you do all things.”

“No,” you respond, appalled. “No, never. If he were mine, I would never see him from my arms.” Your eyes twinkle with mischief as you smirk. “Or my cunt.”

“The mouth on you!” Octavia gasps. “Just because you seek to lay with a savage doesn’t mean that you have to behave as such.”

You gasp in displeasure. “Jacobus is no savage!”

“And you know this how?” she asks and you feel your cheeks heating at the words yet unspoken, knowing how they will sound in the ears of your companion. Your thoughts will seem naïve, childlike, but they are so heavy on your tongue that you must speak them anyway.

“His eyes,” you say. “The depths in which are more vast, more cerulean, than any ocean. How I long to gaze into them as he touches me, his war-hardened hands gripping my flesh. His voice deep and low in my ear.”

“You talk as if in love!” Octavia says, clucking.

“Nearly so,” you reply.

“You have yet to even share words with the man,” she says, “and now you make declarations of love.”

You don’t respond, not quite knowing what to say, so Octavia leaves you to disappear into her adjoining room and the returns with a handful of folded clothes. 

“Will this suffice?” she asks, unfolding the stola and holding it up for you to see.

It is something Octavia has not worn in ages, too small and too short, but perfect for you and your purpose. You drape the fabric over one shoulder and wrap it around your waist, letting it fall high on your thighs. You cinch it with a belt of woven gold thread and tassels, then slide your feet into Octavia’s sandals.

“Come,” she beckons and then she dabs scented oil onto your skin where Jacobus might linger – behind your ears, in the hollow of your throat, the valley between your breasts. She removes the gold collar from her own neck and places it around yours.

“Should I mark your skin as well?” she asks sarcastically, eyeing your bare ankle. 

Octavia’s bares your family’s mark, permanently tattooed to signal her as a slave.

“That seems a bit unnecessary,” you reply, smirking at your companion. “The marks he will leave on my body will be well worn.”

Octavia rolls her eyes as you smooth down the fabric around your thighs. You admire yourself in the mirror as you speak. 

“In any case,” you say, “I am more than capable of taking care of myself. You of all people should know.”

Before she can respond, you turn around so that Octavia may gaze upon your completed appearance. “Do I look a slave?” you ask.

“No,” she says. “You look a Roman in slave’s clothing. As always.”

You smile. “For tonight, it will do.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, I previously uploaded 2 chapters of this fic, and for some reason I orphaned it. I don't remember why. I must've been going through something at the time, but here it is again. Thank you so much for reading. I really hope you enjoy it!


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